Ever Understand the Bathtub
by Alia5
Summary: Sequel to No One. Hermione never bottled anything away. Too forgiving. Instead, she poured it in her mental bathtub. Now she needs to open the drain. Rated for minor violence.


**_Ever Understand the Bathtub_**

**Summary:** Sequel to No One. Hermione never bottled anything away. Too forgiving. Instead, she poured it in her mental bathtub. Now she needs to open the drain.

**Disclaimer:** Not my universe. I make no profit off of this, which would probably be why it's called a FANfic.

**A/N:** Please read the previous story. It will explain a few things. There will be a third story, and I was thinking about making them all one story, but each one is in a different style. The third, most likely, will be the resolving story. :D

I always imagined myself standing up. I guess I figure, when I'm sitting, I'll drown in my troubles. They build up, you know. I'm standing in a tub, only it's giant, with a small and square base. All around me is white—so white, it's black. It's nothing and it's everything at the same time. And outside, away from my mental bathtub, the sorrows build up. I'm banging on the walls and screaming inside, but everyone keeps dumping these troubles in my bathtub. And the water fills, and the water isn't hot. I guess that's my major difference between my troubles and others'. I never learned how to keep the water warm. The water rises, and it freezes me, and who notices what's cold anymore?

So there I stand. I'm drenched right now. The water's coming past my chin. I used to dream I was crawling and I couldn't stand up. My nightmares weren't of drowning, like most people would think. I knew how to save myself in all of my nightmares; just stand up. But I couldn't do it. And I know how to swim. I once tread water for fifteen minutes, all the time I was allowed to swim, just to prove it to my mum. For some reason, I can't swim in this bathtub. I no longer have nightmares of crawling; I don't have to, the waters touching the top of my lips.

I hate showers. The water pours on you, and sears, and burns. It's ironic, I think, that my beloved bath kills me. I won't unplug the drain. I won't let it all go away inside. And so it grows cold. It's long gone from others' showers.

The sensitive area between my lips and nose are prickling with the rising water level. I've tried to jump a couple times, but the funny thing about jumping is you fall back down. I always hated gravity anyhow. My arms won't come up for me to swim, and my legs won't kick as the water covers my nostrils and cuts out my breath. I realize, just a moment ago, that no one is pouring in these problems. All these tears are from me. I'm drowning myself.

You realize when you've emotionally killed yourself, that most of our daily life is automatic. Especially when you killed yourself while your hand raised of its own obligations to answer a question.

I always liked "the subtle art of potion making." That's why it always hurt me so bad when I didn't do well enough to compete. I'm only a teenager though, can't I have a break? But I never wanted one enough to ask anyhow. Someday I'll accept that I'm not the best in everything. If I survive that long.

It hit me, and I tried one last time to survive, as Ron teased me for "giving the teacher the explanation he was supposed to teach." I stood up in the middle of the teacher's sentence. In a way, I wondered why this place was so different. There was no menacing figure of Professor Snape to tell me my faults, but I still had no relief. This teacher seemed unimportant. He was blonde, tanned, and kind, and so he seemed less ominous to me. I turned on Ron, who sat with me because every teacher had separated Harry away from me.

It was a dive to unplug my bathtub when I yelled, no, screamed at Ron. I started out calm, the suffering swan, and became viscous, like the shark Viktor had become. "Why do you never let it rest? Why can't you leave me alone, Ron? All you ever do is hurt me, and hurt me, and hurt me. You used to hate Potions because of Malfoy and Snape," I gestured to the empty chairs and the teacher, "and I hate not just Potions, but my life because of you. You never help me, though you claim to be my friend. How long has it been since we were friends, Ron? How long?

"You deserted me for Lavender, but no, I'm to blame for that. You only lied and betrayed me, but I attempted to show how much I care_d_ about you. Past tense, Ron, past tense. Oh, I'm just Hermione, who doesn't have anyone else to go to anyways. Have you ever thought that maybe, just maybe, I might not be there when you come back? I always supported you. Not anymore.

"You don't care about me. Harry doesn't care about me. You're too busy thinking about your latest snog—I mean, Lavender, and Harry's too self-absorbed and dramatic to notice another person who isn't all over him."

I could tell they were going to say something, and the tampered seal wasn't letting enough out of my bathtub; I wouldn't be able to stand anything they said. And I can't break down in public. I'm supposed to be the angry girl, not the weeping willow. And so, I turned to the teacher.

"I don't need you. I barely need any of my classes. I know how to read a book, and I know how to teach myself. I've been doing it for years. And you're not an actual potions master anyhow. You can send me the course requirements and any essays or potions you want me to complete. I'm leaving."

And I walked out.

I thought I was going to break down as soon as I left that classroom. But then, a student passed by, then an obscure teacher, and another student, and another, and I suppressed my tears. I made it all the way to the farthest secret nook in the library in a calm. I've read that in the center of a storm such as a hurricane or tornado, there is a region called the eye. It's calm and still, with the climax of the storm surrounding it. Once you leave the calm, you'll probably be ripped to shreds. That's how I saw this storm, at least. And it was true.

I stayed in that corner of the library the rest of the day. I couldn't come out without seeing students or Ms. Pince, and so I read mysteries—the books that were stored in that corner—all day long. When I tired of the puzzles, I could pull out a textbook, but to actually think required too much energy. I was able to ignore my stomach, which cried from having barely eaten at breakfast, and skipped lunch.

Ms. Pince found me about an hour from curfew. She apparently knew where I was the whole time, I reasoned later, because she silently came in and set a tray in the center of my space. When she left, I gave up my pretense of being absorbed in a book and examined what she gave me.

The tray was filled up with a meal and a note; it was all my favorite type of food. Healthy, balanced, and not bad for my teeth. A goblet of water, ice water at that. Underneath the silverware was a folded piece of parchment. The guilt was coming back, the guilt for being dramatic. I suppressed it and opened the note.

_I am sorry._

—_RW_

And I screamed.

It was a scream of frustrations, of anger, and of so many hidden emotions I know nothing about other than that they hurt. I couldn't accept his 'gift.' The tray I threw with all my might against a wall. I wasn't strong enough to break the plate and so I picked it up and threw it again. The resounding crash barely eased the pain, but wasn't enough by far to suppress my agitation.

I shrieked again, going high pitched at the end and falling into a sitting position on the floor. Over, and over, and over I screamed and I shrieked through a growing flood of tears until my voice wasn't even a normal human sound. My hands beat against the rough carpet, as I needed something to do with them.

When I had screamed myself hoarse, I stood up again, breathing deeply and gasping for air at the same time. It sounded like an inside-out sob. I looked at the tray, and then at the note, and I let out a short screech one last time and started yelling at Ron with all the voice I could manage. As I ranted at Ron, I picked up a chair and smashed it back down. That wasn't enough. Seeing the wall with revived fervor, I slammed my body against it. I could feel bruises being made as my sides came in contact.

"You think sorry is enough? You can't even admit what you're sorry for! You never understand!"

Finally, as my wrath seemed to reach a climax, I backed up and ran into the gray, stone wall with as much speed as I could build up.

"You never understand! Never! Never!"

With each 'never' I collapsed. I couldn't feel pain, probably from the concussion. I had known I was broken before, and I supposed this was a release, but that didn't quite fit it. I was destructive. I still wondered about this as I passed out and the teachers ran in to save me from the bleeding. I realized what I was with my last thought before falling completely unconscious:

I was destroyed.

But you'd never understand that, would you Ron?

**A/N:** Okay, everybody depressed now? Well, review and tell me about it! Then go read something about butterflies and bunny rabbits, but first, **_review!_**

Heh, okay, seriously. I know this series is utterly depressing, and that this story was rather short compared to the other one. But, there is another story after this, and I promise it won't be nearly so depressing. Plus, school's back up soon which means I can't write it at 1 am, when it's easier to be depressed. The previous chapter (I suppose I'll call it that) was taken mostly from experiences and stuff like that, and this is what I've always wanted to do when upset mixed with actual experiences and feelings of this nature, so the next will be a bit of a challenge and probably take longer. I'm never put myself in the hospital in such a way nor actually gotten my friends to understand when they're hurting me, so it'll be a learning experience to write! But that's what makes it fun!

_No One_ **Ever Understand the Bathtub** Alia


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